Switching his flashlight off, John turned his head toward the main part of the silo. Spotlights had been set up irregularly to illuminate the interior, but they were few, and some flickered hesitantly, leaving areas of blackness. He didn’t particularly want to go any further, but everything Penelope Quick had said was true so far, and he thought she probably needed help more than she would have guessed. Capable and shrewd didn’t mean the same thing as invulnerable.
Charlie made a gulping sound. “Smells real bad, boss. These people some kind of sick freaks or something? Looks like they cut these folks into pieces. They part of some cult?”
“I don’t know, Charlie,” John said quietly. “But we don’t have time for the sheriff to climb off his fat can and come down. So make sure your rifle is loaded and ready to fire, and for God’s sake, don’t shoot me in the ass.”
“I ain’t never shot a man in his ass,” Charlie said defensively. “I think I ain’t.”
John’s lips twisted derisively, and he exited the short hallway. He was standing on the second landing, and for a brief moment he could see the Atlas missile as it stood there almost four decades before. Of course, he blinked and the image was gone.
Then someone tried to introduce his brains to a two foot long rusty tool.
*
Anthony rose to his feet and fluidly stepped back from Will’s corpse, leaving the obsidian knife lying across the body’s chest. Horrifying creatures vomited from the depths of an underworld hell, unreservedly flowing forth, and scrambled for purchase in their new environment. They came in a variety of shapes and sizes and issued out in a terrifying sequence of monstrosities that would have greatly pleased Charles Addams.
Penelope stared while blackness flowed around the area and made the fire seem dim as the fading vestiges of a dying light bulb. Above the petrifying scene, the moon was completely covered by the Earth’s shadow, and a film of dark blood red discolored its facade.
Her father used to say, “When blood appears, it is apt to run.” Remembering the saying caused a wintry streak to run unbridled down her spine. Blood had already run. Abruptly, Penelope didn’t want to think about all her father’s endless sayings, each oddly appropriate for the correct situation or her diabolic inner voice that only came to light when she needed a reality check. In the crimson light of an eclipsed moon, what did all of that really matter?
Her gaze went back to Anthony. Strangely satisfied he looked upon his accomplishments and smiled. Then his eyes came to rest on Penelope’s shocked face, and his lips curled in a way that would have chilled penguins at the South Pole. He had wanted her to see Will sacrificed. Perhaps he had wanted Will to see that his younger, psychotic brother had managed to capture their heroine, their only hope. Perhaps Anthony had even thought that it would take the sting out of Penelope’s fury. Instead angry warmth flushed her system.
Behind him, she saw something move, and for a vicious hopeful moment she thought it was Will, but it was a larger figure that surged effortlessly out of the fractured earth. It stepped onto the ground with a solidness that belied its insubstantiality. Then the shape unfolded itself into a larger form that towered over Anthony. Black wisps of nothingness trailed from its shape like a dark cloak concealing its true appearance, and its acute red eyes glared down at the smaller man standing in front of it. Whatever this thing was, it was more than the rest, holding its form like a sovereign come to personally investigate the abrupt changes in its kingdom.
Anthony turned slightly and saw what Penelope was seeing. She thought his shoulders quivered ever so slightly, but she couldn’t be sure. Unhurriedly he reached for the medicine bag looped around his wrist. He opened the bag without losing eye contact with the other. She became aware that Anthony knew what he was facing. It was possible that he had faced this being before when he had opened the underworld.
The Shadow Lord spoke, and it was in a grinding voice that would have made the strongest individual shudder with distaste. It was the awful sound of fingernails being dragged down a thousand chalkboards. It was the nail-biting sound of insects scuttling over a person’s feet in the darkness. It was the unadulterated sound of wretchedness.
Penelope didn’t understand the words at first. In her mind she knew that the underworld’s king was speaking in a language that was not human. The shadow people holding her arms tried to hold her back, but she pulled them forward a little bit. She listened intently and after a moment grasped the meaning of the words.
“Your bargain is unfulfilled,” the Shadow Lord said. Its eyes attempted to pin Anthony to a wall like a pin through a butterfly.
Anthony was unconcerned. His fingers twisted the leather thongs of the medicine pouch, waiting for his opportunity. He spoke in English, aware that Penelope was listening and uncaring of the fact. “I have given you the blood of a sorcerer warrior.”
The Shadow Lord’s head tilted curiously. It didn’t look at Will, but she was aware that it was contemplating his body all the same. “His blood is similar to yours,” the great thing said satisfyingly in its appalling voice.
Penelope could see instantly that Anthony didn’t like that statement. His voice rose in anger, and he spoke regardless of her listening. “The moon is obscured. I have spilt the valued blood of a brave soldier. I have found that which has been lost to you these many centuries. All of these I have done.”
“Where is the sky god?” the Shadow Lord said, and its voice was a vile rumble of interest.
Anthony reached into Joseph John’s medicine pouch and produced the stone. He held it up. It glittered blackly in the masked light of the fire. “This is what you seek, Shadow Lord,” he said boldly. “This will give you the control you want. This will make you the supreme being of the underworld.”
There was a moment of silence. The Shadow Lord considered the stone that Anthony held in his hand. Its massively black head and red eyes penetrated the deepest night. It held as still as nothingness could. It was a long moment of concern, and Anthony’s confident pose began to falter. Penelope saw it in the curve of his shoulders and the way he held the black stone out to the beast from below. The hand faltered and dipped an inch.
Then Penelope couldn’t help herself. In the depth of the extreme silence, she laughed.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Friday, July 18th
Darkmans (slang, origin unknown, probably 18th century English) - the pitch black part of night
With the onset of what sounded like little children screaming, Jake got over the quaking of his knees and made his way to the crest of the hill that separated the air vent shaft from the main silo area. He’d seen the area before, when he’d come chasing cattle or on some drunken errand. John Rife had once pointed out the innocuous entrance, and Jake hadn’t been very interested in seeing the interior because of his diehard “black hole” rule. What he hadn’t seen before was the fire burning near the main entrance to the silo and all the people running around like chickens with their heads cut off.
But ninety-eight percent of those people had red glow-in-the-dark eyes, and Jake shuddered helplessly in response. The other percent was the fella staked near the fire, the girl held by two of the red-eyed things, and the fella who seemed to be in charge because he was walking around like he was a demigod. And, of course, there were the four children tied to the four points of the wind.
Jake was pretty sure this wasn’t the usual Friday night kegger with the real wild folks who came in from New York and California to spice things up. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t even see a solitary keg. When the demigod fella stabbed the guy on the ground with a big black knife, he was even surer.
But what really capped off the evening was when the ground began to shake and split apart like a watermelon hitting the asphalt after being thrown from the sixth floor of a building. Jake was forced to do an immediate self-sobriety check. He pinched his face to see if in fact he was merely having an alcohol-induced vision. Instead there was a flash of distinct pain when his fingers
ruthlessly tweaked the flesh over his cheekbone.
Nope. The mescal has worn the hell off. I’m pretty sure the worm has passed through my system. I am no longer drunk, he thought rationally. Too fucking bad. He came to a conclusion that he didn’t care for in the least.
The shit in front of him was real.
Jake sighed. Some of those things wandering around down there bore a striking resemblance to his last ex-wife, and that was the worst part. But he knew about those children. It had been in the news for a couple of days now, and the media was going bug-fuck about it. The police were searching cars as they were about to cross the borders into other states and into Mexico. Their little faces were splashed across every newspaper in the country. Their parents were pleading live on the evening news for their return. Those were the four children who had been kidnapped from Dallas. Yep, those children.
Jake didn’t like black holes, fat women, and jalapeños. But he didn’t have anything against children. Goddammit. And the situation appeared as though the children’s dismal state of affairs wouldn’t conveniently wait until he could fetch the sheriff.
Adjusting the grip on his granddaddy’s prized Smith and Wesson, Jake began to work his way down to the site. Using a low crawl he had learned from watching such favored movies as The Big Red One and The Great Escape, he slowly made progress toward the flickering fire. He would have to sneak under some fence wire to get to the four children, but he had a buck knife in a sheath on his belt that would take care of the rope that bound them.
*
Jessica Quick found a set of stairs and began to mount them. The feel of the muck on her feet disturbed her, but there was no way around it. She knew that on the way down she had descended countless stairs. Consequently she would have to ascend the same to exit the silo. She paused frequently to listen to what was happening around her.
It took her some time to reach the base of the stairs, but if there was one thing that Jessica had learned in her time of being blind, it was how to orient herself. She knew approximately how many steps there were from the bottom of the stairs to the bunker where she had spent the better part of a week. The only problem was whether or not someone would get in her way.
Jessica made the second flight of stairs before she got a little muddled and had to backtrack. Then she heard voices and knew that she would have to protect herself. She felt around with anxious hands and discovered an old tool that had been left behind decades before. It felt like a very large wrench, and one that could effectively cave someone’s skull in.
So when she was given the opportunity that was exactly what she attempted to do.
*
John Rife ducked, and the rusting wrench hit the wall instead. He lifted his shotgun and abruptly realized that he was dealing with a middle-aged woman who looked remarkably like Penelope Quick. Short brown hair with a few grays. Brown eyes. Perky face. “Dammit,” he cursed vehemently. “I’m on your side, woman!”
Jessica hesitated on her second swing. Being blind gave her several disadvantages as well. The individual she was aiming at sounded sincere, but she couldn’t see his features.
Then Charlie said rapidly, “We’re looking for Penelope and her mother!”
John rolled his eyes. Charlie sounded like a little kid instead of a man in his forties. “You Jessica?”
“Who are you?” the woman said slowly. She hefted the heavy-duty wrench again as if threatening them with it. “And spit it out, I don’t have all day.”
“My name’s John Rife, and this here is Charlie Ortiz,” John said. “As you can see, we’re just a couple of cowboys from the next ranch over. I helped your daughter out yesterday, and I was a mite concerned that she hadn’t made her way back yet.”
“That’s because the jackass who took over this place has her upstairs,” Jessica informed him coldly. “And no I can’t see. I happen to be blind.”
John’s jaw dropped. Penelope Quick hadn’t mentioned that little tidbit. It made for better comprehension about why she was so concerned about her mother. But then Jessica Quick offered up an even more startling fact. “And he’s got the children,” she said calmly.
“What children?” John said.
“The four children who were kidnapped, Mr. Rife,” Jessica said. “This man named Anthony, the one who was in charge of taking me, well I think he intends to kill all of them.”
Understanding hit John. “You don’t mean those four kids from Dallas, do you? The little babies from the day care center?” His voice was full of horror. If he had known that little bit of information, he would have called Fred Gomez himself and insisted the man come at once. And John certainly wouldn’t have taken “No, I’m drinking coffee with Mrs. Obama” for an answer. Of course, he wouldn’t have had to do that, because Fred would have cheerfully called in CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, and the Fox network, as well as the Marines in order to save those children from impending danger. Fred was, after all, a consummate politician.
“Yes, that’s right. Jenny, Danica, David, and Jeffrey. The little dears.” Jessica finally let the wrench drop to her side. The people she was speaking to seemed alert and not psychopathic in nature. “But why didn’t you call the police instead?” she asked.
John didn’t really want to explain about the county sheriff’s reluctance to bust an individual who might be persuaded to be a large contributor to his next re-election campaign, unless it was obvious that said individual was doing something illegal. Therefore, it was doubly convenient when the entire silo began to shudder and quake like a giant fist had enclosed it in its tremendous grip and was slowly squeezing its fingers shut.
*
Anthony twisted his head to stare at Penelope. A muscle tic on the corner of his façade signaled the geyser of insanity bubbling so close to the surface. He didn’t immediately understand why she was laughing. Because he had lost control of the dangerousness with which he was dealing, his confusion was apparent.
Penelope, on the other hand, let all of her apprehension go with one fell swoop. Her lips peeled back over her teeth, and she laughed uproariously. The shadow people at her sides slightly loosened their diabolic grip, and she tugged a little as she stepped forward.
Then the Shadow Lord looked at her as well, and she found the attention of the unnatural beast more than she wanted to take. The laughter died an unruly death, and Penelope closed her mouth with an audible snap. She didn’t know what would happen next. But she believed wholeheartedly in another one of her father’s sayings, “Possession is nine points of the law.”
And I’ve got possession, she thought determinedly. Anthony just doesn’t know it yet.
Not being particularly slow, Anthony gazed at Penelope and then switched his glance to the stone he was holding in his bloodied hand. He held it up to the meager light and twisted it this way and that in order to see it more carefully.
Penelope could have told him that Joseph John Dick must have been extremely precise in obtaining the piece of obsidian and having it cut to replicate the real Tears of the Spirit. At a glance the two seemed identical. But the one Anthony was holding wasn’t real. Both stones had been in the medicine pouch at her neck, but she had removed the actual item and placed it in the front pocket of her black jeans, wrapped in a handkerchief. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do with it, but there had to be something.
Unless Anthony got to her first and pried it out of her dead fingers, and like she had conceived of before, there were always variables that a good thief couldn’t plan for.
The fake stone didn’t hold the refracted light the way that the black diamond did. The authentic Tears of the Spirit was opalescent in its coloring, soaking in the colors of the spectrum, and distributing them back to the observer in a way that showed its true value. Simply gazing at its vibrant multihued features made an onlooker take in an awed breath.
Penelope knew the instant that Anthony comprehended his peril. The hand holding the piece of elaborately carved obsidian fell to his side. His eyes came
up to Penelope’s and he said, “Thief.” His voice was thick with hatred and imminent retribution. Like the coyote that protected her, she had tricked him, and she gloried in the trick, even if there was every chance that she wouldn’t be walking away from the night.
The Shadow Lord spoke again with its horrid voice delivering a death knell. “You have failed,” and his attention was wholly upon Anthony. “She is one with the stone. Her blood has mingled with that of the sky god’s. It will never come to be in your possession.” It was oddly pleased by its statement, and Penelope didn’t know exactly why.
Anthony dropped the useless piece of obsidian and took a shuffling step backwards. “I can get it from her,” he insisted, his tone revealing an edge of desperation that didn’t suit him. “Just because her blood dripped on the Tears of the Spirit doesn’t mean I can’t— ”
The movement of the shadow people by her sides interrupted him, and he awkwardly trailed off, no longer a dominant force. The shadow people abruptly let her go and slithered uneasily off to one side, keeping their distance from her. Penelope understood why they had been afraid of the Tears of the Spirit. It held some kind of power over them. The lord of the underworld desired the stone as a control. It was even possible that it didn’t desire the move to the fourth world. It had its own realm, and Anthony had interfered in a way that it didn’t like.
But what power does it hold over the shadow people? asked her inner voice.
The Shadow Lord didn’t hesitate. A great clawed hand shot out and clasped Anthony around his neck, lifting him so that his feet dangled several feet off the ground. “Too late for that, human. Your chance has come, and now it is gone.”
Shadow People Page 37